Erlkönig: Anger Management

When I have the occasional bad day and need to take it out on someone, I
don't take it out on my loved ones anymore...

I got the idea one day when I was sitting at my desk and remembered a
phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.

A man answered, saying, “Hello.” I politely said,
“This is Chris. May I please speak with Robin Carter?”

Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that
anyone could be so rude. I tracked down Robin's correct number and called
her.

I had transposed the last two digits of her phone number. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.

When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, “You're an
asshole!” and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it
in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a
really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, “You're an asshole!”
It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic 'asshole' calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, “Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone Company. I'm just calling to see if you're interested in the Caller ID program?”

He yelled, “NO!” and slammed the phone down. I quickly
called him back and said, “That's because you're an asshole!”

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot.

Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had
patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for
the spot. The idiot ignored me. I noticed a “For Sale” sign in
his car window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole, (I had
his number on speed dial ), I thought I had better call the BMW asshole,
too. I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can you tell me where I can see it?” “Yes, I live at
1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out
in front.”

“What's your name?” I asked. “My name is Don Hansen,” he said.

“When's a good time to catch you, Don?”

“I'm home every evening after five.”

“Listen, Don, can I tell you something?”

“Yes?”

“Don, you're an asshole.” Then I hung up, and added his
number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call. But after several
months of calling them, it wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be. So, I came
up with an idea. I called Asshole #1.

“Hello.” “You're an asshole!” (But I didn't hang
up.)

“Are you still there?” he asked. “Yeah,” I
said. “Stop calling me,” he screamed.

“Make me,” I said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Don Hansen.”

“Yeah? Where do you live?”

“Asshole, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow house, with my
black Beamer parked in front.”

He said, “I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start
saying your prayers.”